“Our existence is but a brief crack of light between two entities of darkness.”
- Vladimir Nabokov
I am not real.
Perhaps that was not the best descriptor. Allow me to revise that. I exist, but I am not the real thing. I am a replica, and a very good one at that, but certainly not real. I was made where I stand, atop a sturdy, wooden table littered with miscellaneous supplies. I rise proudly above its surface next to my brethren: the unstained scraps of wood, the wood glue, and the occasional box of nails. I watch as they are assembled this way and that by my creator, an old man now, though I still remember his younger days. Once he is satisfied with his newly formed creations, he takes them away. They do not return.
I admit, it took me quite some time to accept this cycle, and quite a bit more to be able to enjoy it. In fact, I think I am still working on that part. There is no worse feeling, I find, than being torn away from what you have grown to consider a friend. But I now believe that if I had one of those pudgy, stretchy things my creator calls a face, I might be able to smile, for I know that each and every one of my friends finds a new home. I hear laughter or excited chatter every now and then, always from somewhere past the rickety boards of the ceiling above me. That is how I know that one of my prior neighbors is making the voyage I never will.
I used to wish, a long time ago, that I could go with them. I wished to emerge into the vast unknown, the world beyond his workshop. There, someone would see me. Someone would remark on how tall and proud my stature was, how glossy my finish. One might even decide to take me with them. To where, I could not say. And that would be the beauty of the journey.
But, over time, I have come to accept this place; my permanent home, as it would seem. I am his favorite, and, therefore, he can not let me go. He holds on, working around me even when I know he could use the extra space on this tabletop. I think I remind him of why he crafts us. Why he spends hours down here, building up magnificent specimens from what some might look at and call nothing. I know, when quiet music emanates from the old radio next to the stairs, and his tools are scattered in every direction, that he is happy. And that is enough for me.
Yet not every day brings this calm contentment. There are times at which I must go days, sometimes even weeks without a change in my environment. No creator, no songs, no moving about of the supplies around me. Now, in fact, is one such time. I know, from the clock adorning the opposite wall, that he has not returned in three days. The only, minuscule change I have registered in that time is the small sound of trickling.
On these days, I am a hollow shell. It is on these days, especially, that I yearn to be real. He has spoken of what I am and built others like me. I know, from his speech and enthusiasm alone, that, in another life, I would be breathtaking. The laughter and chatter I hear from the world above would be nothing compared to the gasps and excitement of someone beholding me, in all my glory, in the place I would be if not here.
Thoughts of a reality such as this bring me joy in the absence of change, but they are also a poison. They plague me just as much as they aid me, possibly even more so. For I have accepted that my wish will never come to fruition. I will take what joy and satisfaction I can from where I am here and now, however long it may last, but it will forever be lacking the thing I truly desire: to be real.
I wait, then wait some more. The hours wear on. The clock reads midnight. That trickling sound grows louder. I allow my thoughts to bring me elsewhere, thinking again of the expressions of wonder I could paint upon those faces if only I were real. It is 1:00 a.m. when I feel it: the first gush of water.
I never imagined that this was how or where we would meet. Arriving at the moment, I am not quite sure how to feel. We were meant to be together, after all, and that, for the most part, brings me joy. It is like meeting an old friend, I realize, only this is the first time we have met outside of my fantasies. The bitter side of this sweet moment lies in the fact that I never got the chance to say goodbye, or, at least, what my own muted equivalent of a goodbye would be. I believe, however, that this is right. I kept my creator company for a great many years, and now it is time to move on.
The water rises, and I rise with it. I part with my tabletop for the first time since my creation, and the feeling of freedom, of the water cradling me at my sides, is almost euphoric. I imagine once more what it would be like to be real. My imagination is not very far off from what I feel right now. I am happy. I am still happy when my table is no longer visible beneath me, concealed by the dark water. Even when I touch the rickety boards of the ceiling, and the water floods over my sides, I remain happy. For it occurs to me now that, perhaps, I am real. After all, every ship must sink.
Jessica Day